A Jolly Good Fellow (seventh rambling)
by Aednat the Fourteenth
Summary: "Ya're a jolly good fellow, eh, Monsieur Bonnaire?" he says, with marked effort to sound at least a little bit disparaging. Émile laughs in turn: "That I am, my friend. That I am. Made it to the third place in the December 2017's Fête des Mousquetaires competition. Theme: "Dark".


**I usually don't use warnings in my fics, but I'll make an exception for period-typical racism and violence in the story, and some pedagogic use of offensive words in the end notes.**

 **For those of you who're waiting for the eighth chapter of _Hope And A Future_ … I'm on it. It's been four months since I last wrote in English, so I needed a warm-up before attacking this monster again.**

 **As always, a huge thank to my beta, Pika La Cynique.**

 **x**

"BONNAIRE!"  
He sighs. He's used to hearing his name in that tone, but now is not the time.  
"BONNAIRE!"  
Émile dislodges his face from between the massive breasts he was enthusiastically failing to inhale.  
"Don't stop," Jeannette moans, but he removes his fingers as well. She frowns.  
"I'm terribly sorry, my dear," he smiles knowingly, and, raising an eyebrow, adds: "Work calls."  
That's the moment Jacques chooses to open the door.  
"BONNAIRE!"  
" Do you mind!" Émile snarls. The bulky man spectacularly ignores both his protests and the charming sight of Janet vainly trying to hide under the sheet still tangled around his legs.  
"There's a problem with y' ebony wood," the interloper grumbles. Émile reaches for his breeches, that have somehow landed under the bed, before answering lazily:  
"Well, there are always problems, aren't there? What is it this time? Did Marcelin drink all the extra rum I generously granted him and crash into the dock?"  
He's only joking, but Émile immediately hopes it is nothing of the sort. Marcelin is a great captain, with much experience of the currents and the trade alike. He can't afford to lose him and tends to allow the notorious drunkard far more liberties than he deserves. Maria keeps saying that it'll come back to bite him one day.  
Jacques shrugs: "The officer wouldn't say."  
Well, now he's worried. Has there been a mutiny? He feels a prick to his pride. People don't rebel on his ships! He hires his crews wisely and pays them well. Sailsmen fight to work for him! Or they did, once: a year ago, some idiot stabbed his quartermaster in the back, hoping to replace him. In spite of this undisputable show of motivation, and the fact that, to be honest, the now deceased officer was a bore, he had sent the murderer to the authorities. No ruffians allowed in Émile Bonnaire's team! Only gentlemen like Marcelin who, though he spends far too much time in his cups, is loquacious and whimsical, and can play chess better than the governor.  
When Jacques adds: "I think I heard one of the crewmen talk 'bout some… sanitary issue," a mix of relief and fresh worry blossoms in Émile's mind.  
What has the bloody drunkard gone and done now?  
He jumps off the bed to retrieve the rest of his clothes, releasing the sheet that allows Jeannette to fully cover herself at last. A rather pointless prudishness: from the moment he entered the room, Jacques hasn't favoured her with a glance. It's funny how some people manage to hide their lust easier than their contempt.  
The man reeks of contempt.  
The ignorant philistine!  
Émile takes his time to dress. Whatever the urgency, let it not be said that Émile Bonnaire ever shows up to work in less than pristine apparel. He splashes some water on his face, smoothes his moustache, wipes off the tobacco that fell on his shirt the previous evening, conscientiously buttons his doublet, then sits on the bed and spits on his boots before brushing them with a handkerchief, for want of anything better.  
"Shall we be off, then?" Jacques asks, in a remarkable effort to remain courteous to the parvenu that he despises.  
Émile grabs his beautiful feathered hat and answers on the same tone:  
"Do let's."  
The man grunts something that would probably feel far more insulting if he'd had the courage to say it out loud. Émile gifts him with a charming smile. Despite himself, he enjoys this strong, coarse but scornful man fearing him. Likes knowing that his quick tongue, his business acumen and his ready wit had eventually more than made up for his family's lack of wealth, his short stature, his middling-at-best swordsmanship and his overall dread of everything that hurts.  
He suddenly has a feeling. One he has had before. It is the same kind of feeling that tells him precisely when to raise at an auction or to fold on a card game. This feeling whispers to him that, sooner rather than later, it is men like himself who will rule the world.  
He might not live to witness it but, in the meantime, he will just enjoy life as intensely as he can.  
Before leaving the small room, he casts a backwards glance at Jeannette. Not for the first time, he wonders if he could take the beautiful _quarteronne_ to France with him. She's smart, literate and courteous, not to mention her... other talents. All qualities he rarely finds in white servants. Also, with her skin almost as fair as his, he may not have to hide the fact that he made her his lover.  
Well, then again, there it is. The reason. Maria would kill the poor girl.  
 _Quite literally_ , he ponders, and chases the notion away. He doesn't like thinking of his beloved this way.

En route to the docks, he does his best to lighten the mood between him and Jacques. When small talk fails to bring any trace of a smile to the oaf's lips, he changes tack:  
"On his last trip, Marcelin brought me back the finest Tempranillo. It is a fruity variety, far from the vinegary swill they have the nerve to serve us gentlemen in these barbarian lands. What do you think? If you like it, you may have a bottle. To thank you for the celerity with which you deliver my messages, whether they are annoying requests from solicitors or crucial information for my business."  
At this, the man grunts: "That'd be very kind o' you," and Émile cannot miss the upward movement of his lips. He doesn't try to hide his own smile, and Jacques actually chuckles at that:  
"Ya're a jolly good fellow, eh, Monsieur Bonnaire?" he says, with marked effort to sound at least a little bit disparaging. Émile laughs in turn:  
"That I am, my friend. That I am."

xxx

They've almost reached their destination, chatting pleasantly the whole way and not really watching their steps, when the girl runs into them.  
Into him, to be exact, and she's so small he practically trips over her. He recognizes the daughter of the Gerrings' cook, before a furious Jacques seizes the collar of her oversized shirt. She screams when he releases her and she hits the ground. Tries to stand, massaging her left hip, tears of fear and anger in her eyes, and Bonnaire has just time enough to clumsily catch the bulky man's arm before he brings his cane down on her face.  
Why does such a boor needs a cane in the first place? he wonders, but only protests:  
"Good Lord, Jacques! She's only a child!"  
The spark of animosity in the man's eyes informs him that he's about to lose all the sympathy his magnanimous offer of wine had gained him a moment before.  
"What have I told you over and over?" he adds anyway, and Jacques grumbles:  
"That the merchandise is no good if it's brok'n. But, _beggin'_ yer pardon, Monsieur Bonnaire, the girl's no merchandise. She's the Gerrings' property."  
 _And she looks remarkably like Mister Gerring_ , Émile muses, massaging the wrist he has managed to harm in his heroic move.  
"Well, all the more reason to treat her with care then, don't you think?" he argues. "How would you feel if Mister Gerring found your horse wandering about, as it did last week after those little brats cut it loose, and started beating it?"  
He's managed to put just enough playfulness in his tone to make the scolding sound cynical rather than patronizing. Jacques grunts and turns on his heels, in the direction they were heading. The girl is still sitting in the dirt, too stunned to run off. Émile crouches down before her.  
"How do you feel, child?" he asks, and he can hear Jacques sighing behind him.  
"I'm… fine, Sir," she answers too quickly. "Thank you."  
Unconvinced, Émile lifts the shirt and reveals a large red blotch peeking over the waistband of her skirt.  
"Don't lie to me, child," he says.  
He intended to sound friendly, but the girl starts stammering:  
"I'm… I'm sorry, Sir. _Monsieur_. I… I didn't mean…"  
"That will become purple, and very painful, in an hour or two," he interrupts. "Go to the _Lys d'Or_ and ask for Jeannette Fradet. Tell her that Émile Bonnaire sent you, and to give you the red salve. Apply it generously on your hip."  
"Oh, Monsieur, that's hardly necessary!" she protests, and he mentally smiles at the dash of pride, the sudden display of elocution, happy to realize that the girl is both smart and taken care of. He tuts at her anyway, and insists: "When it is done, come back and meet me at the docks, when the _Saint-Géran_ is anchored." Then, with a wink: "I'll give you some biscuits from France my captain bought me".  
Her face brightens.  
"Thank you, Monsieur Bonnaire. That's very kind of you."  
He watches her run to wherever she was going before colliding with his legs, and catches up with Jacques. They walk in silence for a while until he teases:  
"I can see you disapprove, Jacques."  
This time, the man doesn't take the bait:  
"S'not my place to judge, Bonnaire."  
 _Amen_ , Émile thinks, but notes that his grouchy comrade has dropped the 'Monsieur' again.  
A philistine indeed.

Sometimes, he feels like he spends his whole life fighting men like Jacques. Not physically, God forbid, but negotiating, seducing and maneuvering all day long can be just as exhausting.  
Truth is, he doesn't like to see people suffer. Furthermore: he doesn't see the point. Demanding respect of other human beings is a birthright most are not blessed with. Émile, who has worked hard to get where he is, doesn't envy such spoiled ignoramuses. No, he's earned his privileges, and he may not have many principles, but he's proud to say he lives up to those few he sets stock by.  
He doesn't confess that to Jacques. The brute is not technically his employee, but he likes the dock workers to think of him as a boss. And a boss doesn't share his feelings with underlings, especially a mean and dumb one, who once broke a young man's leg just because he'd looked him in the eyes a little too long, and far too boldly.  
Such a waste to cripple a strong and brave man who was at his mercy anyway!  
Émile had paid for the doctor, and then found the lad a good master, who treated him well and ended up freeing him after only some years of service. A perfect deal for everybody, as far as Émile was concerned , and all that thanks to his few but firm principles.  
Right?

When they reach the port, he's pleased to notice that the _Saint-Géran_ is docked, and that nothing is broken after all. Despite the smell of alcohol ahead of him, the tall and elegant captain Marcelin is not drunk, or he hides it well as he rushes up to them:  
"MONSIEUR BONNAIRE!"  
Good Lord! Can't anyone say his name without hollering?  
He rolls his eyes and leaves Jacques standing there as he strides forward to meet the Captain. When he's certain the churl has disappeared to resume his occupations, he inquires:  
"What?"  
"There's been... an incident," Marcelin begins shakily, and it's unsettling to see the usually composed, seasoned sailor so uncomfortable. He adds: "I… A boy 'n his mother died, and I believed t'was cholera, and..."  
At these words, Émile steps backwards.  
"WHAT?"  
Has the man touched him?  
Has he spat on him while speaking?  
Has he breathed near him?  
How near?  
Oh dear!  
How does that stuff spread exactly, again?  
What the Hell was this dimwit thinking?  
Can he run now and avoid quarantine?  
If he just locks himself in his room, there's little chance that he'll infect anyone, right?  
Right?  
How will he sustain himself? He cannot tell Maria to come near him as long as he's not certain… He'll ask Jeannette! Yes! Jeannette will do. She'll be happy to help him. To feed him. Or to take care of him if he gets sick.  
Will he get sick?  
He'll die if he gets sick!  
Oh Good Lord, he's going to die!  
There must be more than a hint of panic in his eyes, because Marcelin almost yells:  
"But it wasn't! I dunno what both got sick, with no fever, but bad pukin' and the runs. We locked them all in the hold and waited, drinkin' only rum and wine for days, til we could know..."  
 _You drank my wine?_ Émile thinks, but lets the man finish his story:  
"After a while, they all told us there'd been no-one else taken ill. That the woman 'n the child had died but the others were fine, but we knew they'd said anythin' to be let out."  
There's a pause then, long enough for Émile's mind to grasp the insinuation. He holds a breath before hissing:  
"You didn't."  
"I had no idea what else to do." Marcelin protests, and adds with sudden pride: "I've confined or thrown overboard some of me own men to avoid epidemics! Are you suggestin' I should show more mercy to..."  
"Let's not talk about it here!" Émile snaps, partly to assert his authority, partly to get out of this slippery conversation.

When they set step on deck, the stink assaults Émile even before he sees the hold's trapdoor.  
"Wha… Wha… Why didn't you throw the bodies overboard?" he babbles, but he knows the answer before Marcelin voices it:  
"Would you 've gone down, Monsieur?"  
No, he would not have. Actually, even now, he will not.  
"Are there any survivors?"  
Valentin shrugs: "Five. Two men and three women. They're bein' tak'n care of. Not sure they'll make it."  
No use asking them to empty the hold, then. He should have guessed, but the stench is overwhelming and he feels very much like throwing up. Or running away. Or fainting. Why didn't Marcelin warn him, for God's sake?  
But he sees the answer on the man's face. Sees the need to share the burden of catastrophe. He may have full command and complete authority on his ship, he still wants his boss to look at him in the eye and tell him that he did the right thing. That he will be paid the same, even if the loss of a whole shipment will cost Émile a fortune, no to mention the trust he spent months wheedling from his most leery customers.  
So Marcelin leads the way and Émile follows on shaky legs. Pats in search for a handkerchief in his doublet. Remembers that he used it to polish his boots half an hour before. Removes his hat instead. Almost disappears behind the huge brim and feather, but the smell of cologne does the job.  
Marcelin opens the trapdoor and it takes frantic breathing through his mouth and a lot of blinking not to pass out on the spot. He peaks inside. Doesn't make out much in the dark and thanks God. Tries to keep an impassive and manly attitude. Focuses on the door, with one of those discrete sideways glances he spent years practicing. As expected, the avoidance goes unnoticed.  
There are marks on the tender wood. From improvised tools, and fists, and...  
Fingernails.  
There is one still stuck in it.  
He breathes again.  
Nods.  
Concentrates on keeping his voice steady.  
"Take six men and put them to work immediately. Buy them for me if you have to. Be done by the end of the day. Oh, and give them an extra-ration of soup when it's over."  
"Aye, aye, Monsieur."  
It's settled, then. Émile turns on his heels as slowly as he can and heads for the footbridge. He hears the Captain sigh behind him:  
"An unfortunate affair."  
Unfortunate!? It's a disaster! He might have to borrow money from his friends, or even his enemies, to get out of this one.  
But his mind clears as he walks away from the smell and, all of a sudden, he asks:  
"Is there any wine left?"  
"The Tempranillo? Well, yeah, pretty much all o' it. We only drank the table wine."  
"Good. Keep it safe in the docks. I'll sell it."  
It will not make up for the loss, far from it, but it will buy time. When Marcelin agrees, Émile forces himself to meet his eyes again,  
"And, Captain… You did the right thing."

xxx

"Here she is! The future prettiest lady in town!"  
"Émile!" moans the actual lady – or next best thing on this hell of an island – in his lap. "You're supposed to be wooing _me_."  
And it's only half a joke. The woman, the grown woman whose affection he has bought with flowers, dresses and a beautiful - if fake - necklace, is genuinely jealous of the mini-Gerring. He's very much tempted to give her a piece of his mind, and not only because he has had three glasses of rum, which is two more than what he usually indulges at this hour of the day. But his better nature takes over:  
"Apologies, my sweet love. This young person and I had a rendezvous and it is unbecoming for a gentleman to keep a lady waiting."  
She frowns at the 'person', but eventually smiles obligingly. To be quite honest, he had almost forgotten the little girl. It was only when one of the patrons mentioned the maggots found this morning in the baker's flour that he'd jumped to his feet and squealed: "The biscuits!", drawing several startled looks.  
He has them now, and is enjoying the sea breeze, at a careful distance of the _Saint-Géran_. When he gives her a biscuit to eat, and then the whole box for later, her face lights up:  
"Oh, merci, Monsieur!"  
There's no trace of her masters' British accent in the words and he wonders how many languages she speaks. He watches her as she finishes the first pastry, and he absentmindedly brushes off the older woman's fingers when they wander too close to his crotch. He lets her caress his skin under his shirt, though, while he studies the mini-Gerring's features, as he'd studied many of her kind.  
Some hate him, some are afraid of him, some seem only confused by his largesses. Quite a few are genuinely grateful, yet in a twisted, shameful way.  
He shakes his head. It's not like him to wallow in introspection. Why should it be? He's a jolly good fellow, amiable and generous. Everyone likes being around him and he enjoys being surrounded by friendly faces.  
Like the mini-Gerring's.  
She has swallowed the last crumb of her biscuit and stands there, ill-at-ease, obviously not knowing what's expected from her now. The woman's fingers are headed for his manhood again, and he doesn't let the child dawdle:  
"Have you finished?" he asks, and she forces herself to raise her eyes.  
"Y… oui, Monsieur. I… Merci," she says anew.  
"Good," he declares with a smile, and realizes that he feels better than he did a moment ago.  
"Now, get back to your work."

x

 **FIN**

x

 **Notes:  
** **\- This fic came from a discussion about Bonnaire's character on Facebook, and is dedicated to Mordaunt, who knows why :) That was a difficult topic, I hope I didn't mess up.  
** **\- Ebony wood (bois d'ébène) was a euphemism used in French slave trade.  
** **\- "Quarteronne" (masc.: "quarteron") is "quadroon" in English. I kept it in French after reading that the word was offensive in English. From what I heard, French racism at the time was a bit different from the English one, with less of an absolute Whites/Colored divide, relying instead on quite a complex classification of people according to how much "black" they were. Normally, even if we don't use words like "quarteron" or "mulâtre" (mulatto) anymore, someone who's mixed raced is not called "black" in French, but "métisse." It's starting to change, since many people point out that this remainder of the old classification conceals the consequences of the "social race" imposed on people.  
** **\- The _Saint-Géran_ was a real French slave ship that sank near Mauritius on August 18, 1744.**


End file.
